


No voice of mourning save the choirs

by ana-keen (PNGuin)



Series: Battle-Hymn of the Republic [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (he kind of gets the hug this time), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin has a lot of self-loathing, Angst, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of War, Mando'a, Rex is the best and author accepts no arguments, The Force, clone culture, how do we possibly define Obi-Wan and Anakin's relationship, the clones have their own sub-culture of Mandalorian culture and Anakin is lowkey adopted into it, war-time funerary rites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/ana-keen
Summary: At the height of the Clone Wars, Darth Sidious knows that his decades-long plans are nearing fruition. There remains but one man, one obstacle, one inconvenience that stands between him and complete control.Obi-Wan Kenobi must die, and then Anakin Skywalker will be his entirely.Darth Sidious, for all his careful planning, makes a grievous miscalculation. One which changes everything.Or, the one where Anakin waits for things that will never come.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Series: Battle-Hymn of the Republic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686262
Comments: 36
Kudos: 321





	No voice of mourning save the choirs

**Author's Note:**

> This directly follows the end of the preceding one-shot, Undertaker please drive slow. I strongly suggest reading this series in order.
> 
> Title comes from Wilfred Owen's "Anthem for Doomed Youth," which is a short but heartbreaking poem written in response to the horrors of World War I. It's a good read which I definitely suggest.
> 
> Mind the tags, this gets a little heavy.

Anakin waits.

The sun sets below the horizon, leaving room for the planet’s twin moons to arc up above the rocky crags behind him. They are mere slivers of light, nearly nonexistent in the yawning darkness of the night sky, and the battlefield has since been swallowed in shadows. He can only see the vaguest outline of the bodies strewn about him, the jagged edges of plastoid splayed out like the remnants of krayt bones in the deserts of Tatooine, bleached just as white and just as viscerally morbid to a lost wanderer.

He almost expects the coarse whip of wind-blown sand to slash at his cheeks, almost expects the searing heat of twin suns, almost expects the hoarse cry of Tusken Raiders to reverberate through the air. But the sand beneath his knees is damp and fine, the air carries a chill from the nearby sea, the heavy silence is broken only by the gentle lapping of waves upon the shore. He expects a sharp, soul-deep agony to pierce him, to gouge him alive until it’s his own innards decorating the bloody shore. He expects fury to lace through his blood, blinding hot as fire and quick as lightning. He expects _rage_ , black and dark and viscous, oily and cloying and dripping over what remains of his mind.

But Anakin does not feel agony, or fury, or rage. This forgotten battlefield on this forgotten planet is not Tatooine. The remnants of a hand that he desperately clutches in his own is not his mother’s. This is not the fault of the Sand People, but rather the emotionless programming of a droid army.

Still, Anakin expects the agony and the fury and the rage. Longs for it, almost. Longs for emotion to consume him, so that maybe he will not have to _think_ , to _recognize_ , to _acknowledge_ that which lies right before him. Just like when his mother had— when he had nearly— that fierce storm of _emotion_ that had battered him about until he had nearly lost himself to the gale. For all that self-hatred had dogged his steps since that moment, a constant _knowing_ in the fathoms of his very existence, he still longs to _drown_. Just in this moment. Just for now. So that he will not have to accept the truth that has been thrust upon him.

Nothing comes. Not agony. Not fury. Not rage. Instead, settled over him thick as a blanket and twice as suffocating, is a gaping maw. An emptiness. A nothingness. Silence as icy and distant as space. An artificial calm, creeping and insidious. Infectious. In through his airways, through his bloodstream, down to the marrow of his bones. Simply _nothing_.

So Anakin waits.

Until the sun’s warmth has dissipated, until the moons’ slim light has skated across his shoulders, until the lapping of waters at the shore has crept infinitely closer. And still there is nothing. Nothing of the fiery heat of Tatooine, nothing of the sheer agony of holding his dying mother in his arms, nothing of the vicious rage that simmers beneath his skin. There is a lightsaber in his one hand, the brittle remains of a glove in his other, and a black hole tearing at his gut.

He wonders, vague and unattached as any thought could possibly be, if this makes him a bad padawan or a bad son. Was it his furious, blinding, desperate response to his mother’s death that had been righteous? Or is it this cloying shock, this false calm, this mockery of normality? There, curled around his mother’s body and nearly vibrating out of his own skin, had some lesson been learned? Or had something simply been _lost_?

Anakin does not know. Anakin does not think he will ever know. So he waits. Expectant and fearful and dreading every second that ticks past. Every second where the sun does not creep back up from the horizon, every second that the facsimile of a hand in his does not twitch with the familiar warmth of life, every second that the crisp tones of an exasperated Coruscanti accent fail to huff out his name.

Surely, somewhere buried within him, there must still be that fierce storm, that burning supernova, the pounding of a song so primal and so profound that he has never once found words for it. Where is the wordless singing of the Force, the fierce tug in his gut, the constant frenetic energy that always pulses out _livelivelive_ like the drumbeat of his heart. It usually simmers — vibrant and sharp and urgent — just under his skin, a live wire compelling him _go, move, onward, always more to do, always more for_ you _to do._

For perhaps the first time in Anakin’s life, he is _empty_. No pounding of the Force’s primal song, no howling of the Force’s furious storm, no yanking of the Force’s demanding will. Where there should be fierce gales and swift currents to drag him along in the Force, there is now a stillness, a silence, a _void_ so pervasive and corrosive that it withers away what remains of his soul. He is cast adrift, lost in the endless _nothingness_ of space, suffocating on emptiness. Anakin is alone, and not even the Force can bear to reach out and comfort him. Almost as if the Force, too, is mourning what its child has lost.

He doesn’t know what to do. Not without that sometimes-playful, sometimes-somber, _always-present_ tugging in his gut. Not without the Force leading him on. Obi-Wan would know what to do. Obi-Wan _always_ knew what to do, or at least always figured something out in the meantime. But Obi-Wan is not— Obi-Wan cannot— _Anakin_ cannot—

He waits.

For the hand in his to twitch. For an exasperated but achingly kind voice to chastise his stillness. For the Force to rush back to his veins and give him a direction to take. For the world to make sense again. Anakin waits and waits and _waits_ for things that will never come, and he wonders if any Jedi could possibly find it in their hearts to be proud of this cruelly learned patience.

But wars wait on no one, not even Anakin. _Especially_ not Anakin. There are another few thousand men stationed just beyond this shore. A few thousand men who also mourn their fallen brothers, but who do not have the luxury of _waiting_ like Anakin does. A few thousand men who must pick themselves up from battle and ignore the ghastly sight of the graveyard before them and continue on to the next forsaken battlefield. A resentful shame wells up in Anakin’s stomach, burning at the back of his throat like bile, sharp and acrid and rotten. What right does he have to be here, when all of his men cannot do the same for their brothers? He should be back at their camp. Should be helping transport the injured, helping with the movement of supplies, helping ready everyone to return to their fleet. He should be living up to his duty as a general, as a Jedi, as all that the war has dragged him into being. Anakin _needs_ to get back to them, because they are _his men_ and the last time he left them— the last time he _failed_ them— just like he failed his mom, like how he failed _Obi-Wan_. And if anything happens then it will be _his_ fault. Because he did not listen to the familiar tug of the Force in those thoughtless few seconds before the explosion rang out, did not listen when the dreams of his mother’s suffering invaded his mind, did not listen to the burst of warning that the Force offered when Krell took command of _his men_.

But he can’t. He can’t find it within himself to let go of Obi-Wan’s hand. Can’t find the strength to push himself to his feet. Can’t swallow back the lump of _pain_ long enough to breathe properly. Can’t turn his back on this battlefield and resume his role as general to thousands of weary and exhausted men. Anakin _can’t_ and the shame curdles deep in his gut. What kind of general does this make him? Foolish, selfish, useless. _Obi-Wan_ would be able to. And if Obi-Wan were here then _Anakin_ would be able to, as well. But Obi-Wan is not here. Obi-Wan is no longer that warm, steady, soothing presence always resting against the back of Anakin’s mind. For the first time since Anakin was nine years old, since his hair was first braided by Obi-Wan’s gentle hands, Anakin is completely _alone_ in his own head.

Alone, waiting, on the graveyard where a thousand dead men lie, clutching a lightsaber that will never be returned to its owner. And still. Still, the war does not stop. Eventually, his men cannot afford to wait on him any longer, and Anakin can sense the lone trooper sent to retrieve him long before he reaches Anakin. He would not need the Force to know the way those feet trod upon the ground, would not need the Force to recognize the quiet steadiness of the trooper as he approaches Anakin and kneels beside him in the bloodstained sand.

Rex. Who else would it be? Who else _could_ it be, now that Ahsoka is gone, now that _Obi-Wan_ is gone? Now that Anakin’s head is filled with a yawning emptiness where once there had been light and warmth and love. Only Rex is left. Just the two of them, the only living things left behind among a field of dead men. A general and a captain, forced to fight a war that should never have been theirs to begin with.

Neither of them say anything, not even as Rex settles just close enough that contact feels achingly out of reach. Near enough to long for something, too far to achieve it. That deep, quaking part of Anakin that never really left the harsh sands of Tatooine, that part of him that shivers with some desperate need for _loveaffectioncomfort_ , longs to reach out. To dig his fingers into the edges of the plastoid armor and _cling_ to Rex, just as he used to bury his face against his mother’s dresses or clutch at Obi-Wan’s robes when he had been tormented by nightmares. But Anakin is not that boy any longer, and this desolate battlefield is no nightmare, and reaching out to Rex would mean letting go of either Obi-Wan’s lightsaber or Obi-Wan’s hand and Anakin _can’t_.

He wants to say something — _anything_ — to break the silence that lays thick and heavy around them, somber with the ash of past explosions and metallic with the sharp scent of blood and blaster afterfire. But the words do not come. They rattle emptily around in his head, sticking deep in his chest and his throat like tar. What could he possibly say? That he was _sorry_? Sorry he hadn’t been able to save his mom, sorry he hadn’t been able to save Obi-Wan and the thousand dead brothers around him, sorry he can’t ever seem to be the general he should be, the Jedi he should be, that the remnants of the 501st and the 212th must scramble to make up for his failings. Sorry that Rex and Cody had been left to the unenviable position of gathering the names of the dead while Anakin kneeled here in silence, sorry that they must mourn for brothers who believed they were born for such unforgiving deaths, sorry that they must fight a war that could have been _prevented_ if only Anakin had been _better_ at Geonosis. Sorry that Anakin cannot help but clutch at Obi-Wan’s hand and do nothing.

But there are no words in all of the galaxy for the visceral, fathomless depth of Anakin’s feelings. No words for that aching, hollowed out sensation left in the wake of destruction. The Republic has been declared the victor of this battle, but Anakin has long since learned the truth of war, learned it in the weary eyes of hopeless men and the desolate shells of destroyed cities and the bloodstains left behind by civilians. The game of war is something that can only ever be lost.

They have won today. But they have only ever lost.

His fingers curl tight, and he wishes that he could keep going. Tighter and tighter, until Anakin can cling to what remains of Obi-Wan and drag him back through sheer force of will. But it is a futile effort, and not even Anakin could ever undo death. He forces himself to ease his grip, for fear of his mechno-hand damaging the hilt of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, for fear of feeling the sickening grind of bones from a hand wrapped in his own.

“ _Rex_ ,” he chokes out, the name scraping up from the dredges of his soul. It doesn’t sound like his own voice; distant, hollow, aching, a pain from far off instead of deep within himself. He should say more, he _needs_ to say more. But he chokes on his captain’s name and it feels as if all those unsaid words escape him anyway, in that gaping silence of a stagnant battlefield, just as putrid and rank as stagnant waters.

And his captain, his loyal and faithful and long-suffering captain, understands him just as well in these quiet moments as he does amidst the cacophony of blaster fire. “I know,” Rex murmurs, voice achingly soft for a man who has only ever known the cruelty of war. He shifts closer, easing himself into Anakin’s personal space as one inches toward a rabid animal, a ticking time bomb, an inevitable disaster.

Anakin thinks of that fury, that suffocating rage, that had seeped into his blood when his mother had died, and he thinks about how Rex has always seemed to understand him, to know him, even when perhaps he shouldn’t have. Shame wells up, viscous and consuming, until Anakin might just choke on it. None of his men should ever need to fear Anakin, ever dread his short fuse blowing with them in the blast radius. Bile burns the back of his throat, bringing with it the ashy taste of failure and the cloying tang of regret. He would never, _could_ never, bring them harm. Not his men, his crazy troopers who fling themselves into battle behind him. Certainly not _Rex_.

And yet, when familiar unyielding plastoid armor digs into his shoulder and a hand — ungloved, warm, unbearably vulnerable — comes up to cup the back of Anakin’s neck, there is none of that distinct tang of fear in the Force. It is not fear, nor trepidation, nor unease which openly lays across the surface of Rex’s presence. His hand is heavy and grounding on Anakin’s neck, their shoulders pressed close enough that Anakin can feel the steady shift in Rex’s breathing. Beside him, kneeling on this awful graveyard, Rex is warm in his concern and solid in his calm and understanding in his own grief.

In that moment, they are on a thousand different battlefields, stranded in a thousand different graveyards, mourning countless thousands of lives. Anakin remembers those rattling first few months of his command, padawan braid freshly severed and promotion to general freshly deposited onto his shoulders. He remembers wandering among the seas of fallen men after the blaster fire had quieted, remembers kneeling beside the dying men who had reluctantly been declared as lost causes by the pickers, remembers their too-old faces with their too-young eyes and tears they all pretended were not there. Remembers sitting at their sides, clutching at limp hands, easing away pain with the Force, promising in a hoarse voice that they were not alone. And he remembers Rex eventually finding him, in those painfully early days where they all believed that _maybe_ it would be a short war, remembers the captain’s hand on the back of his neck, remembers him prying Anakin’s fingers off of dead brothers, remembers the _grief_ that had swam in those eyes even as they returned to camp. Anakin remembers the countless brothers he had held in their last moments, remembers the gaping hollowness that opened in the Force with each of their deaths, remembers his mother’s hand on his cheek as she heaved one last breath.

He had not been able to hold Obi-Wan. Merciful, perhaps, that the death had surely been a swift one. Cruel, for all that Obi-Wan had been _alone_ , for all that Anakin had not been there for his brother, for his father, for the man who had taught him and raised him and cared for him. Some Chosen One, some Hero With No Fear, some Warrior of the Infinite, if he cannot even succeed in protecting those dearest to him. If he cannot even save his own mother, his own padawan, his own _master_.

As if — somehow, impossibly — sensing the impending spiral of Anakin’s thoughts, Rex leans in even more, crowding into Anakin’s space. The familiar weight of the other man is comforting against Anakin’s side, reminding him of the long nights they have spent in makeshift camps with too few beds, resting against one another in the early hours of the morning. Anakin cannot help but press into the contact until the pressure of Rex’s plastoid armor is digging in past his Jedi robes and into his skin. And it’s only then, against the stark contrast of his captain’s resolute steadiness, that Anakin realizes he’s _trembling_.

It’s the same soul-deep shiver that had settled the first time he left Tatooine. That worming, gripping sensation, like all the warmth had been leeched out of his body, like ice had crystallized around his very bones. Like it doesn’t matter how much he shivers because he will never be able to feel warm again, not when every source of warmth has fled and there is no way to restore what has been lost. That first trip to Coruscant, Padmé had given Anakin a thick Nubian blanket. Those first few months at the Temple, Obi-Wan had made hot tea and had let Anakin curl close to him.

There are no spare blankets among their limited military supplies. There is no hot tea mixed in alongside the rations. And there is no Obi-Wan to curl against when Anakin just wants to hide from the world and be _warm_ again. But there is Rex’s steady presence beside him and the awareness of a few thousand men at the periphery of his mind and the gentle hum in the Force that emanates from Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.

And it’s not enough. It will _never_ be enough for Anakin. Not when there is this gaping hole where Obi-Wan is supposed to be, beside Anakin as he has been for nearly fourteen years. But it is all Anakin has now, and it will have to do. He has no choice but to continue, even with his master no longer there; no choice but to get back on his feet and return to his men and fight in a war that never ends. There is no choice.

“They’re going to light the fire soon,” Rex says into the aching silence.

The two moons are slivers in the sky, providing only the faint illusion of light, but Anakin can make out the shine of Rex’s eyes as they focus on him. Muted and wan and dim surrounded by the darkness of the battlefield. Anakin can’t bear to look him in the eyes, can’t bear to see the disappointment or resignation that he might find there.

“The men want to include General Kenobi in the remembrance, if that’s alright, sir,” his captain explains quietly.

Anakin is still waiting for that damning inevitable fury to well up inside of him. Still waiting for the gut-wrenching jolt of awareness that should flood through him, washing away the mental shields he’s built up and unleashing the terrifying storm that always roils within him. Waits for it with that same sort of dreadful anticipation that gathers under his skin right before he leaps into the fray of a battle. It does not come, does not consume him. Only a barren emptiness, the stifling stillness of the desert when the suns are at their peak in the sky and the winds refuse to blow. Perhaps it is only because of the steady presence of Rex at his side, anchoring Anakin to a temporary calmness that will never last; just as Padmé’s presence had managed to _yank_ Anakin back from that terrifying precipice on Tattooine.

Or perhaps Anakin has lost more of himself to this war. Not just his mercy, his compassion, his generosity. But even his fury, his anger, his pain. What good has any of it accomplished these past years? The tempest of his emotions has brought him nothing but more _agony_.

But Rex is still waiting for an answer, silent and resolute and _there_ in all the ways that Rex has been since Anakin first met him. And all Anakin can think about is that last time he’d been in a situation similar to this, when he had rushed to Ahsoka’s side where she held what they had believed to be Obi-Wan’s corpse. And he thinks of that fake funerary service, of standing in front of a burning corpse with the cloying scent of incense in his nose, of being close enough to the flames that Anakin had half-considered letting himself burn right alongside his master, of that dreadful realization that in a crowd of Jedi and politicians Anakin had been the only one crying.

And he thinks of the single fire lit after each major battle, the single fire that burns for the hundreds or thousands of men who will never have their own pyres. A list of names or designations or anything they could find on a spare scrap of flimsiplast, spoken aloud into the solemn silence of a battle’s aftermath, burned into ash with a finality that the corpses could not always be afforded. Tears running freely in the single hour of mourning they are afforded, a thousand variations of a similar voice raised up in a war cry turned requiem. Anakin remembers sitting with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, mourning fallen men in their own way, backs turned to the pyre and pointedly sitting away from their troops; not from a disregard or lack of care, but from the will to not intrude upon what little rituals the soldiers had to call their own.

Jedi do not mourn. Or, at least, they are not supposed to mourn. They are supposed to stand vigil at a pyre for one night and celebrate the passing of one’s essence back into the Force. Anakin thinks of the politicians who had tossed about their political weight to gain attendance to _Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi’s_ funeral on Coruscant, thinks of the media spectacle it had become. And he thinks about all the times he stood on the bridge of the _Resolute_ , Obi-Wan by his side, the shared pride and compassion they had for the men at their backs, the silent agreement to turn a blind eye on the murmured solemnity and quiet tears of the daily Hour of Remembrance.

Obi-Wan had always hated politicians. But he had always cared for the men under his command.

“He would like that,” Anakin chokes out. And the words burn just as readily as a funeral pyre, tasting like ash on his tongue. Because to say it is to acknowledge it. And that makes it _real_ , and _absolute_ , and _permanent_.

 _But_.

But Obi-Wan — _Obi-Wan_ who asked for the troops under his command to receive medical care before himself, who cut back on his own rations before ever asking his men to, who sat beside grieving soldiers during the Hour of Remembrance and added his own murmured names to the recited list — would appreciate receiving the same rites as the men he served alongside. Would want it even, for all that he would never say the words, for all that Jedi sentiment would not encourage him to say the words.

Anakin does not want to stand up, does not want to leave this battlefield where the last vestiges of his master lie, does not want to join the troopers and have to hear his master’s name read off of a list and burnt away in the fire. He does not want any of this to be _real_. But there’s that gnawing awareness at the back of his head, an emptiness that clings and yanks and urges him. _He has to_ , it reminds him. There is no choice here; or at least not one worth entertaining. He must get up and go to the fire and recite his master’s name, for his men, for Obi-Wan, for the billions of people still being affected by this endless war.

The war does not wait, does not stop, does not show mercy. It didn’t for his mother, for his padawan, for the countless troopers who knew no other life except death, for the innocent civilians caught up in everything. Not even for _Obi-Wan._

So he drags in a stuttering breath, letting the cloying scent of blood and ash and afterfire settle heavy on his tongue and burn down his throat, a pain that will linger as its own form of memorial. His head turns away from Obi-Wan slowly, as if weighed down, until he forces his eyes to settle on his captain’s face. Their eyes meet for the first time since the beginning of this battle; Rex without his helmet, Anakin without so much more. The hand at the nape of his neck tightens, a comforting and grounding pressure against the tension there, and Anakin finds himself nodding. And, painstakingly, one-by-one, he pries his fingers from where they are locked around a twisted and burnt plastoid gauntlet, each joint cracking at the movement and each muscle aching from his bruising grip.

His hand feels utterly empty, like he’s grasping at the smoke of forgotten memories, and he allows himself a small concession by letting his fingers clutch at the smooth edges of Rex’s armor, curling at an elbow joint where plastoid meets undersuit. Anakin tightens his grip, hoping that it hides the tremor of his fingers, hoping that Rex understands what he means. His desperate grasp is a rough approximation of a gesture he’s seen countless _vod’e_ make, a silent plea for reassurance or comfort or merely the acknowledgment that Anakin is _not alone_.

If Rex is bothered by Anakin’s fingers digging into his undersuit or by Anakin using one of the _vod’e’s_ gestures, he makes no indication of it. Instead, he returns the gesture, one hand still heavy on the nape of Anakin’s neck, the other moving to clasp onto Anakin’s forearm. The pressure is grounding and Anakin can almost feel his tumultuous soul _click_ back into place within his own body.

Rex doesn’t give him any time to think before the soldier is getting to his feet, all but bodily dragging Anakin up beside him. Anakin’s feet are numb, that prickling sensation of being in one position for too long washing over his legs like static, and the soul-deep tremor of his limbs is enough to make him stumble. He catches himself before he can fall and lets himself lean into Rex’s space for the sparing seconds it takes to right himself. Through it all, Rex’s hand remains a steady anchoring point at the nape of his neck; Anakin cannot help but lean into it, fearing all the while that his soul will float away from him should Rex not hold it down, dreading the vicious storm of emotion that will swell and consume him should Rex not hold him steady against the raging waves.

Obi-Wan’s lightsaber is heavy in his hand. Heavier than it has any right to be. Heavier than Anakin thought the kyber crystal and metal alloy could ever possibly be. But Anakin doesn’t let his grip waver, and he doesn’t let himself look down, and he doesn’t let himself think about Obi-Wan or the gaping emptiness in his head. He focuses on the weight of the lightsaber in his hand, on the warmth of Rex’s hand at his neck, on the steps he takes across a darkened battlefield. If he focuses enough, it could be any of the countless battlefields he’s been on in the past few years, stumbling over scattered remains and resolutely refusing to gag at the putrid stench of burnt flesh and rotting viscera.

Anakin doesn’t remember walking back to camp, doesn’t remember having his wounds dressed by Kix, doesn’t remember eating the ration bar that Rex most likely forced into his hand. It all passes by in a blur, a hazy recollection that is fogged by the utter monotony of the situation. If he doesn’t think, it could be any other battle, any other week, any other circumstance. They beat the clankers back off of the planet, they’re waiting for transport back to the _Resolute_ , Anakin will meet up with Obi-Wan and they’ll give their report to the Council and then go sit in the mess and promptly _not talk_ about the hard-working men who died under their command or the matching bags under their eyes or the everlasting strain the war likes to settle on their shoulders.

He is so close — _so_ _painfully close_ — to that false reality that Anakin can’t help but believe it. Right up until he’s suddenly standing in front of a roaring bonfire — the largest they can risk making on a planet that isn’t technically yet Republic-occupied — and surrounded by the familiar press of soldiers around him. Anakin’s in the frontmost row, the fire blazing close enough that he can almost feel it scorch his skin, close enough that he almost _wants it_ to scorch him. Rex is still at his side, their shoulders pressed together and one of Rex’s hands again (still?) on the back of his neck. And all around them are brothers, huddled so closely that even their Force signatures muddle together and Anakin can no longer discern where one ends and another begins. Usually, Anakin is so attuned to the Force that he can identify Force signatures with an ease that unsettles people; he can tell which _vod_ is which without turning around, without seeing their distinctive painted armor or their faces or hearing their voices.

Now, the usually comforting press of thousands of familiar Force signatures is nearly suffocating. A physical weight that crashes against his soul like the furious waves of Kamino’s oceans, relentless and overpowering, drowning him in that particular tang of mourning and grief until Anakin feels small and insignificant and _weak_. Behind him, a few brothers are crowded near his back, packed tight enough that he can feel the edges of their plastoid armor whenever he breathes in. Anakin doesn’t know who they are, can’t distinguish the feel of their grief over that of thousands of others, and he can’t bring himself to turn around. It could be Fives and Echo, or Jesse and Kix, or Hardcase, Tup, Hawk, Appo. Or it could be — to Anakin’s greatest shame — any number of the men whose names he can never seem to remember, the men from companies that he doesn’t work with as closely as Torrent, the men who — _Force forbid_ — die before ever receiving their paint or their names.

Beside him, leaning quietly against the shoulder that Rex has not claimed, stands Cody. Cody, who has stood at Obi-Wan’s side since Obi-Wan first received the position of General. Cody, who protected Obi-Wan’s back all the times that _Anakin_ had not been able to. Cody, who coerced Obi-Wan into visiting the med tent and resting. Cody, who had been leading a different company across the field when the explosion had hit. Cody, who maybe understands that guttural, visceral trepidation at saying goodbye to _Obi-Wan_. Cody, who Anakin cannot bear to look at.

The fire burns hot and the soldiers crowding around him block out the chill of the night, but Anakin feels nothing but _cold_. _Cold_ and _empty_ and _alone_. He’s shivering, a tremble which starts deep in his bones and rattles throughout his entire body, his teeth chattering in his own mouth. And not even clenching his jaw and tensing his muscles until he feels ready to _snap_ does anything to lessen that soul-deep quivering. Nothing can steady him, not Rex’s hand on his neck or Cody silently crying beside him or the nameless brothers leaning against his back. Anakin stares into the flames and can only think of Qui-Gon’s funeral pyre, of his mother’s funeral pyre, of how this day is unequivocally _so much worse_.

Anakin has overheard this ritual before. But he has never been involved in it, never been so easily enfolded by the ranks of brothers into this most sacred and treasured of things they call their own. He’s picked up some Mando’a from his time among the troops, but his understanding of the language is mostly limited to orders, insults, and short phrases, and he has overheard the ritual enough times to know that the words will wash over him in an incomprehensible fog. And it occurs to him, sharp and sudden, that for all his easy rapport with his men, he has always been an outsider amongst them.

Cody steps forward, away from the innermost ring of men and closer to the fire, and an eerie hush falls across the crowd, broken only by the crackle of flames. For all that Anakin is _officially_ the highest ranking officer present, he knows that Cody is the highest ranking of the gathered _vod’e_ , that he alone has been deemed the _ori’vod_ to all of the brothers. That _Cody_ must be the one to lead this dreadful affair.

There is a distinct catch in his voice when he starts talking and Anakin _knows_ that he must be crying, even if Anakin cannot tear his eyes away from the flickering of the fire. But Cody’s voice rings out as steady and true as it always has in the heat of battle, carrying over the flames and to each of the weary men gathered. Anakin watches the flames and tries not to shake right out of his own skin and lets the words wash over him, hoping to maybe drown in their depths. They’re Mando’a and Anakin does not know the translation, but he knows the meaning in the same primal, deeply-ingrained way he knows the Force.

And then come the names. _Mostly_ names. Some are merely designation numbers. And for all of these, Anakin forces himself to choke out a whispered echo to Cody’s call. They taste of ash and blood on Anakin’s tongue, they settle heavy in his stomach. He can’t fathom looking at Cody and seeing the piece of flimsi clutched in his hand, the seemingly endless list of the dead, reduced to stark handwriting on scraps of spare supplies. Anakin whispers each name after Cody calls them and knows that sometime in the next few days all of those names will end up in the datapad where Anakin keeps a running log.

Around him, he can hear troops openly weeping. It is an almost jarring realization, an unsettling difference to the austere and quiet funerals conducted by the Order. If he were among other Jedi, there would probably be tears, but they would be quiet, forgettable little things; there would be heartfelt but ultimately empty assurances that _there is no death, only the Force_. But Anakin has seen enough of war to know that there most certainly _is_ death; has felt enough men and civilians die, their life essences seemingly passing _through_ Anakin before dissipating into the Force, to know the visceral finality of death. Here, there are no Jedi telling him to be mindful of his feelings, no Code demanding that he must feel only peace and not passion. Here, there are thousands of good men who are just as fearless in their tears as they are on the battlefield.

_“Obi-Wan Kenobi.”_

Cody’s voice cracks and Anakin’s vision blurs and when the crowd of brothers repeats the name of Anakin’s master the combined murmur is devastating. Anakin can’t even manage to choke Obi-Wan’s name out, the familiar syllables replaced with a sharp sob that coils deep in his gut and scrapes along his throat on the way out, something guttural and animalistic that makes Anakin think of Tusken Raiders screaming in the sands of Tatooine. His knees shake and his eyes burn and his hand tightens its grip on Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, and somewhere along the way Rex has pulled him closer against his side and the troopers at his back have crowded in and Anakin doesn’t really know if that pressure _helps_ but it at least gives him something to focus on that isn’t abject grief.

All at once, there is a swelling in the Force. A warmth that eases over the jagged edges left behind on the battlefield, that fills the aching emptiness of Anakin’s heart and mind. A great soundless symphony that nevertheless resonates across the entire planet, that song of life and death and everything in-between which only the Force knows. Anakin has felt this before, but only from a distance, only while he sat in an empty tent and turned his back.

As one, thousands of similar voices raise into the somber tones of a song Anakin has overheard far too many times. He closes his eyes, presses into Rex’s familiar warmth at his side, and lets the tide of the Force wash over him as thousands of brothers offer a requiem to the victims of today’s battle. The words rise and fall with a synchrony just as impressive as the men are in the field, but Anakin knows without asking that this is not something the Kaminoans programed, not something that was engineered. This moment, before the flaring heat of a fire and surrounded by good men and enfolded so fiercely yet gently by strong voices and bright Force signatures, this is a moment that has been fought for, every second of these men’s lives. Anakin thinks of the Quarters in Mos Espa, how slaves would crowd the streets at night for bonfires and singing and dancing, and he understands all the words that resonate within the Force down in the very marrow of his bones.

He wonders if — somewhere, now one with the very cosmos — Obi-Wan can hear them.

Their voices grow stronger and louder, near deafening where Anakin stands in the middle of it all, and they pound through his blood like a primal drumbeat, like his very own heart. It grows and grows and grows like the fierce heat of twin suns and the bracing cool of triplet moons, like the grating coarseness of gritty sand and the lashing rains of Kamino. It grows like that fierce heat between brothers, forged in the fires of war. It grows until suddenly it doesn’t, until it ends with a silence that is as thunderous as the voices themselves.

And Anakin knows this next part. Knows the words and what they mean. He repeats them right alongside his men every morning they are able, 0700 ship-time. After the morning muster, before the first meal. He opens his eyes and stares into the bonfire before him and calls forth the sort of fortitude he typically reserves for losing fights.

_“Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.”_

Anakin’s voice is not strong, not steady, not the familiar cadence that he’s grown accustomed to hearing from his own throat. But it is _there_. It is there, mingling in with thousands of others who share that same grief weighing on his shoulders. It is _there_ , even if Obi-Wan is not there to hear it, even if only Anakin and the Force know that he has said anything at all.

_Not gone, merely marching far away._

And it’s in this moment that the reality seems to hit him. That somewhere, in that deep expansive cosmos, Obi-Wan is one with the Force and is marching on. No longer for a never-ending war, no longer from one battlefield to the next, no longer at _Anakin’s side_. Never again at Anakin’s side.

Somewhere, Obi-Wan marches off to a place where Anakin cannot follow. Not yet.

Anakin must keep marching here, for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a couple thousand words of Anakin mourning Obi-Wan and got distracted halfway through with waxing poetic about Rex. What can I say, he's the best.
> 
> Me: kills off Obi-Wan  
> Also me: remember all those named clones that died in canon? yeah they're alive still
> 
> The song that the clones sing is, in fact, a quieter and softer version of Vode An but Anakin doesn't know that so I couldn't put it into the story.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this one-shot. Please leave me some kudos and comments so that I may sustain the void where my heart used to be.
> 
> Hope you are all healthy and happy,  
> ~ana-keen


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